There’s a newer, bigger car parked in the driveway beside the battered black Honda 4 door I’ve nicknamed The Dreamweaver. It’s silver and chunky– an awkward ambassador to the suburbs, a representative of some mothership lost so many light years ago. This guest is the most accommodating of hosts: it seats six, and has a six CD changer in the dash, so each passenger has a choice of musical accompaniment for their air-conditioned journey. This car is alien to me, but as I drive it to work on the expressway, I see countless variations on its ponderous robot bumblebee design. The invaders stream past me, their occupants sealed comfortably within their glass abdomens. By all appearances, these machines ought to blast off the grey multilane runway and into the stratosphere, their star-streaked escape powered by the ultimate biofuel. But like me, they stay in their lanes and go where they are driven. Like me, they have gone native.